Morning sunlight streamed gently through the small window in Asfinne's room, painting lines of gold across the pale wooden walls that had long since begun to peel and crack with age. The warmth of that light clung faintly to the air, mixing with the lingering scent of his finished breakfast — the faint aroma of slightly burnt eggs blending with the soft, buttery smell of crisp golden bacon.
For a moment, Asfinne gazed silently at the plate before him. The white ceramic was scratched and worn, marked by countless meals before this one. Now, only a few crumbs of dry bread and the shimmer of grease remained, catching the sunlight like faint traces of memory. He reached out carefully, his fingers brushing the edge of the plate with a tenderness that seemed almost fragile, as though the world itself might shatter at his touch. The soft clink of porcelain broke the stillness — a quiet sound that merged perfectly with the gentle air around him.
Rising from the chair, he heard the faint scrape of wooden legs against the floor — a sound as delicate as the house itself breathing awake. Asfinne stepped into the sunlight that slanted through the window, and his shadow stretched long across the floorboards, which were etched with the scuffs and scratches of many years. Each footstep echoed softly through the quiet, carrying the weight of presence, the rhythm of someone alive within this old place.
He held the plate in one hand and grasped the cold metal doorknob with the other. It was cool to the touch, the chill absorbed from the morning air. With a slow turn, the latch clicked, followed by the creak of weary hinges as the door opened outward — revealing the long corridor of the orphanage, an ancient building with a life and memory of its own.
The moment he stepped out, a familiar scent met him — the scent of aged wood, faint dust, and the soft soap used by the caretakers to scrub the floors each morning. A pale light filtered through the large window at the end of the hallway, spilling across the planks in a golden beam. Tiny motes of dust floated within it, glimmering like drifting specks of magic in a forgotten world.
This orphanage stood five stories tall. Each floor carried its own quiet, its own collection of stories and whispers. Asfinne lived on the fourth — the stillest of all, lined with only eight rooms down a narrow wooden passage. The polished boards glowed faintly with years of wear, and with every step he took, the wood answered him with a soft creak — not an irritating sound, but a living rhythm, like the heartbeat of the building itself.
He passed by several closed doors. Some bore small, hand-written nameplates. From a few came muffled voices or laughter; from others, complete silence — as though their occupants had been swallowed by dreams.
When he passed a window midway down the corridor, he turned his gaze outward. The morning city stretched beyond, veiled in a faint mist. Thin smoke drifted up from chimneys and distant factories. People moved along the cobblestone streets — men and women dressed in clothing of a bygone era, simple medieval tunics mixed with traces of nobility: long coats, lace collars, worn leather boots. Some carried baskets of bread or buckets of water, others pushed small carts rattling with tools and wares. Horses clopped steadily past, their hooves striking the ground in a measured rhythm — clack, clack, clack.
Farther away, great machines groaned and hissed — crude engines of metal and steam, their gears turning with the strength of something not yet modern, but undeniably alive. Their silhouettes rose like iron giants against the golden sky. It was a world caught between two ages: the whisper of magic and the clang of machines.
Asfinne watched the scene for a while, his reflection merging with the glass — a faint outline within the frame of the old world beyond. He took in the sight as though to memorize it before turning back toward the hallway, his footsteps resuming their steady rhythm on the wooden floor.
Not far ahead, he noticed two figures standing at the corner — a boy and a girl, seemingly deep in conversation. Their voices, low and warm, floated through the quiet corridor like sunlight itself.
The boy had dark brown hair, slightly tousled, and eyes of deep crimson that shimmered with mischief and warmth. He looked younger than Asfinne — perhaps fourteen — but carried himself with a kind of liveliness that made his presence impossible to ignore. That boy was Galax, someone Asfinne knew well. Though two years apart, their bond was strong — not merely friendship, but something closer to brotherhood born from shared walls, shared struggles, and the same faint hope.
When Galax noticed Asfinne approaching, he turned toward him. The red in his eyes glimmered under the sunlight streaming through the corridor windows. He smiled — a simple, genuine smile that needed no words. Asfinne nodded back slightly, the plate still held securely in his hand.
Beside Galax stood a girl with long, flowing blonde hair that caught the morning light like threads of spun gold. Her eyes were a soft, luminous blue — clear and deep, like the morning sky over still water. Her face bore the quiet grace of someone gentle yet steadfast. She appeared a little younger than Galax, perhaps thirteen.
Asfinne didn't speak with her often, but he knew her well enough. She was always kind, always present somewhere in the background — helping the younger children, or carrying trays in the kitchen with careful hands.
For a brief moment, the three of them simply exchanged glances — nothing spoken, yet everything felt. The silence between them was not empty; it was filled with quiet understanding, the unspoken bond of those who shared the same roof and the same longing.
Asfinne lifted his free hand slightly in greeting, the light behind him casting a faint halo along his pale golden hair. Galax chuckled softly, saying something that Asfinne couldn't quite catch over the soft murmur of wind seeping through the window seams. Still, Asfinne smiled — a small, true smile that carried warmth without words.
He walked past them, the plate in his hand catching the sunlight for an instant — a brief flash like a signal of peace. The hallway stretched ahead, long and quiet, leading toward the staircase. His footsteps faded gradually into the distance, blending with the growing sounds from below — laughter, chatter, the clatter of dishes, and the rhythm of morning life.
The wooden stairs groaned as he stepped onto them, each creak rising softly in response. The scent of soap from the kitchen mingled with the faint dampness of freshly washed laundry rising from below. Looking down, he could see the first floor — the heart of the orphanage.
There were many rooms there: the kitchen, the common hall, the washing area, and the small nursery where the younger children still slept. The air was alive with sound — laughter echoing off the walls, hurried footsteps, and the gentle metallic clinking of spoons and plates.
Asfinne continued downward in silence, not wishing to disturb that warm rhythm of daily life. The plate in his hand felt lighter than before, almost as if it carried the soft comfort of the morning within it — a quiet reminder that even the simplest routines could hold peace, and perhaps, a kind of fragile happiness that only existed in such fleeting moments.